ARTHUR J. REES

The sea beats in at Blakeney— Beats wild and waste at Blakeney; O'er ruined quay and cobbled street, O'er broken masts of fisher fleet, Which go no more to sea. The bitter pools at ebb-tide lie, In barren sands at Blakeney; Green, grey and green the marshes creep, To where the grey north waters leap By dead and silent Blakeney. And Time is dead at Blakeney— In old, forgotten Blakeney; What care they for Time's Scythe or Glass; Who do not feel the hours pass, Who sleep in sea-worn Blakeney? By the old grey church in Blakeney, By quenched turret light in Blakeney, They slumber deep, they do not know, If Life's told tale is Death and Woe; Through all eternity. But Love still lives at Blakeney, 'Tis graven deep at Blakeney; Of Love which seeks beyond the grave, Of Love's sad faith which fain would save— The headstones tell the story. Grave-grasses grow at Blakeney Sea pansies, sedge, and rosemary; Frail fronds thrust forth in dim dank air, A message from those lying there: Wan leaves of memory. I send you this from Blakeney— From distant, dreaming Blakeney; Love and Remembrance: These are sure; Though Death is strong they shall endure, Till all things cease to be.